The Desires of Albus Dumbledore
by malaccompagne
Summary: Albus is curious as to what he would see in the Mirror of Erised.


When the Mirror was first brought to the school, I had been unexpectedly seized with a sudden bout of curiosity, one which I had not experienced in many years. Selfish curiosity was a particular brand that I had long since tried to be rid of, and for the most part I had been successful.

But as I oversaw the transport of the Mirror through the school, I could not deny the overwhelming need to see what sort of true desire I harboured within me. As the workers gently placed the Mirror in the empty classroom far away from wandering students, I watched the thin covering that hung over the elaborate framework, hiding the reflective surface. I graciously escorted the workers to the door, wondering briefly whether or not they'd peeked at all on the journey here. They left easily, however, and without hesitation. Though I did not believe them weak, I doubted that they would have had the will power to tear themselves away from the Mirror willingly.

I almost doubted my own abilities. Though I believed to know myself acutely, and self-doubt was a rare occurrence, I also knew that I was no stranger to being weak. The decision to look in the Mirror was not altogether a wise one, and perhaps that should have been the strongest indicator of the sight I was about to see.

I had heard the stories, of course. Known a handful of the people in them, even. None had ever ended well. It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I reached out and grasped the covering, pulling it away so slowly it was comical. It was just an image, after all. I was hardly in any physical danger.

I suppose I had known then that the physical dangers are not the only ones to be frightened of.

The effect was immediate.

I wish I could say that I hadn't been surprised. I had expected, or perhaps just suspected, to see them, but not the way that they were. Ariana, not pale and lifeless as she had been when she'd been buried, not broken as she had been when she'd died, not even weak, fragile, and pitiable as she had been as a scared, young girl. There she was, vibrant and lively, glowing in happiness in a way I hadn't seen since before her attack. Her adult form was not altogether different, still slight, still shorter, but the energy she exuded made her seem larger than life.

I am not ashamed to say that I broke then, at just the sight of my sister. Before all else, she was the one who affected me most deeply, and seeing her smiling, head resting on the shoulder of my younger self in the reflection brought back the old guilt I had buried away long ago. I had not attacked her, but I had not defended her, either. I had spent the entirety of my foolish childhood fearing her for something she did not do. I had spent my adolescence resenting her for barring me from my own selfish dreams. I had never seen her as she could have been, as she was standing in the mirror. Perhaps if I had, things might have been different.

I have always been wary of the past, and learned long ago that it did not do to dwell on the what-ifs that presented themselves to me, but in that moment my resolve was shaken.

It did not help, of course, that standing on her other side was my brother, also changed. Aberforth, his face not creased with hatred and bitterness, but solemn, strong. A man, one unbroken by the hardships of the world, but instead fearless. Only the twinkle in his eye as he gazed back at me gave him away. We had been close, once. Seeing him then sent a wave of loneliness washing over me, and I felt a terrible craving to see him, to speak to him. It had been years, and after he had told me to get out and to never darken his doorstep again I had stopped trying to reach out to him. The thought of our unmended relationship, one that I believed would stand between us forever, merely served to wound me further.

It had been a terrible idea to look into the Mirror, and I could do nothing but stay and suffer the consequences.

The only other thing I saw in the Mirror is the one thing I am perhaps most ashamed of. He was as he always had been. Carefree. Bold. The striking blond of his hair only enhancing the natural elegance of his face, the smirk of his lips as familiar to me as the wand I now held. He had always been charismatic, the leader of our little duo, and it was almost humiliating how cowed I felt even then, gazing at the boy I had once known and cherished more than my own family. The kindness in his eyes only I ever seemed to see was there, rare as it was. The man I visited occasionally that rotted in a cell in Nurmengard was so unlike the one I saw before me, though I did recognize the same hint of a threat in his ice-blue eyes.

That he was here, present in the picture that depicted my foolishly sentimental heart's desire only intensified the hatred I still felt for myself. If he could have seen me then, he would surely have laughed and then questioned what it was that he ever saw in me. Though I was brilliant even then, we both knew that I would never be as outstanding as he. In my weakest of times, I wondered if he had perhaps wanted me for something other than my schoolboy intelligence and keen mind.

I knew that my question would never be answered as I stood there, watching as the three people I cared about most look back at me without hatred or fear in their eyes. I would never be allowed the peace and acceptance that I so dearly craved. It was a suffering that I took on willingly, believing it to be adequate punishment for the sins I had committed so long ago. The Mirror would never bring me anything but sorrow.

I left the classroom that night beleaguered by guilt and remorse. I had almost forgotten, as the years had passed, the price I still paid. The price that I would continue to pay until my last breath, and then perhaps even beyond then.

It was with this in mind that I began to make preparations for the imminent arrival of The Boy Who Lived. If there was one thing I could do to atone for even a fraction of the evil I had committed, it would be that Harry Potter should be better prepared for the burden he would be forced to carry unknowingly on his young, innocent shoulders.

The next time I would look into the Mirror of Erised again, it would be with him, and I, myself, would be better prepared as well.


End file.
